Phooey

Well, the Sox came so close, but just couldn't do it in the end. Ah, well. Two rings in five years isn't so bad.

Yesterday was most productive. I made a list and actually did everything on it. Well, I delegated the corn muffin-baking to Earl and the kids. But I did everything else, including finally ordering a chord method book for some of my students who really need a systematic approach to reading chord symbols. I've been procrastinating on that one for weeks.

I have an annoying little cold, but at least it's little. I was able to sing all three masses this weekend (plus a wedding on Friday) with no major coughing incidents. I've been in touch with lots of old friends from college this past week, and it got me thinking: I owe my ability to sing with all but the most grave illnesses to four years spent in the airless underground bunker known as the Crane School of Music.

I need to get cracking on the kids' Halloween costumes. We have ideas for all three, but not too many practical details. This is not my favorite task. As Abby would say, I'll give it five phooeys: phooey, phooey, phooey, phooey, phooey.